The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  Tonight the moon was peeking from behind gathering clouds, and at times Geoff could barely make out the utilitarian space, which consisted of a privy, a sort of garden bothy at the rear, and a storage shed attached to the house. Far down the alley, the horses were stamping with impatience, their harnesses faintly jingling.

  They would not have long to wait, Geoff considered. In a very few minutes, he and Anaïs would have either succeeded, or failed utterly. Silently, he motioned for Anaïs’s attention, then tilted his head toward the shed.

  Anaïs flashed her fingers. Eight feet.

  He agreed, and considered their options again. A lifetime ago, it seemed, he had scoffed at her notion of going in a window. But neither of them had any experience picking locks, and even had they managed to do it, he had to weigh the danger of making their way through the house and back out a ground floor door, as opposed to shinnying in and out a window. According to Petit, a servant usually slept near the front hall.

  So the window it would be. And much of it would depend upon Charlotte’s bravery. The child—assuming she was as disciplined as Geoff believed—could be handed down. Charlotte could not.

  Geoff looked again at Anaïs, and marveled at the transformation. Her hair was braided ruthlessly atop her head such that a hat might cover it in a pinch. She wore, however, nothing but soft boots, a loose shirt and waistcoat, and her brother’s trousers.

  Just an hour earlier, he had watched her prepare much as he had done; a knife sheathed in a wrist strap, another in her boot, and a length of rope hitched round her waist. She had dressed with outward calm, and since leaving the house had followed his every signal, as if she understood that tonight they must move and function as one.

  Between them, they carried two small pistols, countless blades, a vesta box, a candle stub, and a small bottle of modern ether—one that von Althausen had obtained for Geoff prior to their departure—and one that he prayed to God they would not need. He looked at the window again, and decided.

  He set his head very near hers, barely whispering. “Can you tell if anyone is still awake?”

  She caught his gaze, and gave a little jerk of her head. Slipping from the shrubs, she eased her way up the yard, moving low and always in the shadows, setting every foot right. She really was like a cat in the dark.

  Geoff followed an arm’s length behind. At the back of the house, she stopped and began to move across the length, utterly silent, pausing from one window to the next. When she reached the shed, she knelt and set one hand to stonework.

  He leaned nearer.

  “Someone is snoring down by the kitchens,” she whispered. “Otherwise, no one stirs.”

  He nodded, rose, and made his way up the side of the shed, setting one boot against a rain barrel, and the other against the door frame, then hefting himself up and over the sloping eave. That done, he reached down and pulled Anaïs up after him. Already balanced atop the barrel, she came up easily and silently.

  They had already agreed that Anaïs should go in Charlotte’s window first, though he did not like it. But if Charlotte should awaken, she was far more apt to recognize Anaïs’s voice. Motioning toward the downspout, she gave it a solid jerk to test its bracketry. It did not budge. Anaïs turned and began to climb, shinnying up like a monkey, using the pipe, the ledges, and even a few chinks in the stonework.

  It was perhaps the hardest thing he’d ever done, standing on that shed roof in the shadows of Lezennes’ house and watching Anaïs make her way toward possible danger. But she had argued for it, and she had been right. He would follow her up if—and only if—she got the window open.

  And that would be the tricky part. It was no easy task to slide up a window from the outside, using only one hand while hanging on to a downspout. But she wedged a palm against the center glazing bar and lifted the lower sash inch by inch, the counterweights rumbling gently in the frame.

  He only prayed it would not be enough to awaken Charlotte. He started up after her just as Anaïs braced both hands on the sill and lifted herself through. By the time he stuck his head through the blessedly thin draperies, Anaïs was crouched by a large white object—the bed, he quickly realized as his eyes adjusted.

  Anaïs pointed two fingers at her eyes, then stabbed her index left and right. He swiveled his head. A bedside lamp, and a chair on the opposite side of the window. He nodded. Then, maneuvering deftly around them, Geoff slid through and into the room.

  Charlotte lay on her side, turned away from them, her body curled round a bolster beneath the covers. Anaïs stood, and set a hand over Charlotte’s mouth.

  Geoff felt it the instant Charlotte startled awake, fear surging through the room.

  “Shh, it’s Anaïs,” she whispered. “Just me. For God’s sake, Charlotte, don’t make a sound. Nod if you understand.”

  Geoff heard Charlotte’s hair scrub the pillow.

  “Thank God,” said Anaïs, removing her hand.

  Charlotte rolled up onto her elbow. “Anaïs! What on earth?”

  “Charlotte, we’ve no time,” Anaïs whispered. “You are in grave danger. I think you know that.”

  “Y-yes.” Her voice tremulous, she dragged herself up in bed.

  “Charlotte, we must get Giselle away,” Anaïs murmured. “I think you know why. The French Brotherhood of the Fraternitas Aureae Crucis has sent us. A man named DuPont. Do you know him?”

  Charlotte shook her head, and drew the covers to her chest. “How can I trust you?” she whispered, her voice sharp. “How can I know?”

  “I haven’t time to tell you everything,” Anaïs pressed. “And really, you haven’t much choice. But we know about your husband. The French Brotherhood thinks Lezennes killed him.”

  “Oh, God! I . . . I think so, too.” She sounded on the verge of tears.

  “Charlotte, now is not the time,” said Anaïs sternly. “Now, I am marked—I bear the mark of the Guardian, and so does Geoff.”

  For the first time, he moved from the shadows. Charlotte gasped.

  Anaïs plowed on. “You know what the mark means,” she said. “Once we’ve got some light, I’ll show you. You can decide later who you’d sooner trust—me, or Lezennes.”

  “You,” said Charlotte tremulously. “Anyone but Lezennes.”

  “Good, get up and get one bag, Charlotte,” Anaïs ordered. “We haven’t time to dress.”

  “I packed it,” said Charlotte. “The one bag, as you said. And the card in the book . . . I wondered—”

  “Good, now just find it without tripping. We’ll get your other things later—if we can.”

  It was a testament to Charlotte’s fear that she did not hesitate. “Just the bag in the chair,” she whispered. “It will do.”

  Geoff felt his way to it, and in a trice had the portmanteau roped and run out the window while Charlotte was up and putting on her shoes. It scraped a little when it hit the shingles of the shed, otherwise all was silent.

  It was then that they struck another bit of luck.

  “I’m going to get Giselle,” said Anaïs. “Is she a sound sleeper?”

  “She is here,” Charlotte whispered, pointing at the lump, which was not a bolster after all. “She was frightened—has been frightened for days now. Lezennes will not usually let her leave her bed, but tonight he relented.”

  Her words sent a shiver down Geoff’s spine. He knew precisely why the child was frightened, and why Lezennes had relented. The devil believed full well that Giselle would be entirely his in a matter of days—and that Charlotte would be dead.

  “Wake her,” Anaïs ordered. “We are going to lower her out the window first.”

  “Out the window?” Charlotte clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “We cannot risk waking the footman downstairs,” Anaïs pressed. “She will be fine. We do this all the time.”

  “You do?”

  “All the time,” Anaïs repeated.

  Then, in a few short words, she laid out the plan. Charlotte’s voice began to
shake to the point that Geoff could feel her raw fear. It was best to keep them moving, to press on.

  Anaïs understood. “Wake her, Charlotte,” she ordered. “Be utterly calm and clear in your directions.”

  Charlotte nodded, shaking the child awake and speaking to her in a French so soft and swift Geoff could not follow. But in a matter of moments, the child was up but groggy, and nodding at her mother’s instructions. As Geoff had expected, Giselle was fully cooperative though she spoke not a word to anyone. It was almost as if she knew why they had come—or perhaps she merely understood the evil forces that threatened her mother.

  Whatever it was, Geoff thought, it was a burden no child so young should bear, and his heart wrenched again for Giselle Moreau.

  But he hadn’t long to think about it. With knots that would have made a sailor proud, Anaïs tied the child at the shoulders and waist. Soon he was going back out the window and down to the roof. As Anaïs lowered her inch by inch, Giselle clung a little to the drainpipe, but otherwise made not a sound. Geoff pulled her into his embrace, and at once the child’s arms went round his neck. And still she spoke not a word.

  Soon Charlotte was coming backward out the window, a heavy wool cloak thrown over her shoulders, her white nightdress flapping in the growing breeze. Though Anaïs had tied a rope round her chest and hitched it tight beneath her arms, Charlotte managed to more or less climb down on her own, losing her footing but once. She made a little sound, a sort of short, sharp scream, but caught the drainpipe and clung.

  Anaïs dragged back on the rope, and Charlotte stopped swaying. She finished the climb, but her whole body was shaking. They would be bloody lucky, though, Geoff thought, if no one heard.

  Moments later, they all stood on solid ground. Geoff had the child hitched onto his hip but her arms were still round his neck, clinging as if for dear life.

  “Let’s go.” Anaïs snatched Charlotte’s portmanteau, then froze.

  “What?” Geoff mouthed the words.

  Anaïs tried to listen. “Someone is awake,” she whispered. “Someone inside the house.”

  Charlotte started to speak, but Anaïs clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Quickly,” said Geoff. “Through the alley.”

  Anaïs moved swiftly, her heart in her throat, and one arm hitched through Charlotte’s. Thus far, all had gone according to plan, though how much longer Charlotte’s nerves would hold was not at all clear to Anaïs.

  Dieric van de Velde’s coachman had nerves of steel, Anaïs would give him that. He threw open the door and bustled Charlotte and Giselle inside with utter calm, then leapt up onto the box smoothly, as if he fled in the middle of the night once or twice a week.

  Geoff untied his mount from the rear, then pulled Anaïs behind the carriage door to swiftly kiss her. “Well done, love,” he said, his voice low. “I just pray I never have to watch you do it again.”

  Anaïs leaned in to kiss him back, but at once, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Her heart sinking, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the house.

  Someone had lit a lamp in Charlotte’s room.

  Anaïs cursed beneath her breath. “We are found out,” she muttered. “Mount up, St. George. Your dragon has awakened.”

  The coachman set off slowly at first, going as quietly as he could, then picking up speed as the center of Brussels vanished. After drawing the curtains down and lighting the small carriage lamp, Anaïs managed to help Charlotte and Giselle dress. She had taken the precaution of having Mrs. Janssen procure a few extra articles of clothing, but Charlotte had packed well in her small bag.

  “You took my advice, I see,” she said, smiling into the gloom.

  “Yes, and I saw the note on your card,” she confessed as she wrapped Giselle’s cloak tightly round her. “But it looked so old and so strange. Though I did wonder . . .”

  Anaïs watched Charlotte’s hands tenderly tucking the wool round the child, and felt a moment of admiration—and a little envy, too. Giselle was a lovely, if shy child, and obviously more normal than the vicomte had let on.

  “A penciled message on the card was all I dared,” she murmured. “Lezennes had become too suspicious.”

  “Oh!” Charlotte turned to rummage through her bag. Extracting the book, she took out the card and gave it to Anaïs.

  With mixed emotions, Anaïs tucked it inside the coat she now wore over a brocade waistcoat and a hastily tied cravat. The whole of it had once been her brother’s, and Anaïs had decided that simply wearing it on to Ostend was the wisest thing.

  She was quite certain the first thing Lezennes would do after waking his household and searching every room was to go across the street and demand she and Geoff be rousted from their beds. But he would find nothing save a house shut up, and all the servants gone as quickly as they had come.

  Lezennes was no fool, however. He would draw his own conclusions. Should he then manage to guess their route and enquire after them along the way—both of which were likely—he would be looking for two ladies, not a lady and a young man.

  But they would likely make better time than Lezennes. The roads were good, their carriage light and well-sprung, and drawn by four good horses. They carried virtually no luggage. Petit had gone ahead to arrange for fresh teams along the route. With some luck they would reach the coast by mid-afternoon.

  But Lezennes would be driven by temper. And temper was a factor one should never underestimate. He might forgo the comfort of his carriage or simply send his minions on horseback. Or he might be so sure of their plans he would wait for the trains to run, head straight to Ostend, and arrive there before they could sail. None of it was likely, but any of it was possible—and all of it she and Geoff had planned for and discussed throughout the day and half the night.

  She simply had to trust their good judgment. She had to trust in Geoff.

  Charlotte was staring blindly out the window as the last of Brussels flew by. “Where are we going, Anaïs?” she whispered, her voice edged with fear. “Who will take care of us now? The French? The Fraternitas? Who—?”

  Anaïs reached out, and gripped Charlotte’s arm firmly. “The Fraternitas, always,” she said. “But this time in England. It is more stable, Charlotte. And a new Guardian can be appointed to Giselle.”

  Charlotte’s head whipped round, eyes wide. “Your husband?”

  Anaïs felt her face flush. “No, and Geoff is not my husband,” she admitted. “That was just a ruse, Charlotte.”

  “Not . . . your husband?” Charlotte looked dumbstruck. “Then who?”

  “Neither Mr. MacLachlan nor I are married,” she answered. “And our names aren’t even—well, never mind that.”

  But Charlotte looked pale as milk in the weak lamplight. “And the cards,” she whispered. “Were the cards a lie, too?”

  “I almost wish they had been,” muttered Anaïs. “But no. They were not. In any case, the Gallic Confederation has asked us to protect Giselle until she reaches majority. The Fraternitas has good men in Essex. One of them will likely be assigned.”

  “In Essex?” Charlotte’s eyes widened.

  “Yes.” Anaïs dug about in her bag for Sutherland’s letter. “Our Preost has been in Colchester arranging things with your family,” she said, handing it to Charlotte.

  Charlotte unfolded the letter and turned it to the lamp. Then the letter began to tremble slightly, and for the first time, it was as if a little color returned to her face. “He means my father,” she whispered, eyes darting over it. “My God! He has spoken to Papa! Is that what it means? That I really may go home?”

  At last, Giselle spoke—just a few words, but excitedly. “Maman! Nous allons à l’Angleterre!”

  Charlotte hugged her tight. “Yes, ma petite,” she whispered into the child’s hair. “I think we do. I think we are going to England at last.”

  Anaïs reached across the distance of the coach, and tipped up the child’s chin. “But we have far to go to get there, Giselle,” s
he said lightly. “And you will have a grandpapa to meet. It might be better if you slept now.”

  Lips pressed into a firm line, Charlotte patted her lap. “Good advice,” she said. “Put your head here, and rest.”

  Giselle did as she was told. Charlotte threaded her hand almost soothingly through the child’s hair, but after a time her gaze returned to Anaïs.

  “I always knew it, you know,” she murmured almost accusingly. “From the moment I met you that day at church. There was something—something in your eyes—it did not match your gay demeanor. And then you read those cards—and I . . . I just knew. For good or ill, something very big was about to happen.”

  Something big very nearly had happened, thought Anaïs ruefully.

  Lezennes had meant to drown her in the sea. Save for Geoff’s vision—and his ruthless resolve—Charlotte might well have died before this day was out. But Anaïs could see that Charlotte was again blinking back tears—tears of joy, unless she missed her guess. There was no point in revisiting the horrors she had just escaped.

  As if by mutual agreement, they said no more for a time. Giselle drowsed as the Flemish countryside rolled by in the darkness, but deep sleep evaded her until they had turned onto the main road toward Ghent.

  Then Charlotte spoke more plainly. “We are going to the coast,” she murmured. “To Ostend, yes? And Lezennes will be after us.”

  “Yes,” said Anaïs. “A ship awaits us there. And yes, I am very much afraid that Lezennes will not be far behind us.”

  Charlotte touched her fingers to her lips.

  Swiftly Anaïs told her of what she had seen, and of their decision to go by coach rather than wait for the trains to run, for trains were far too public. She silently prayed it was not a decision they would come to regret.

  “And from Ostend?”

  “Directly to Harwich,” said Anaïs. “Our Preost is still there visiting family. Geoff sent a man ahead on this morning’s packet. With a little luck, Charlotte, your family will be waiting at the port.”

  But Charlotte had dropped her gaze. “It is almost too much to be hoped for,” she said quietly.